


Into the Flames

by Paige242



Series: A House Reborn [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon and Sansa's Son, Parents Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Targaryen Madness, wolves and dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 09:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18962392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paige242/pseuds/Paige242
Summary: Jon and Sansa's son discovers the truth of his lineage and confronts his father.Jon sees his first glimpse of madness.Perhaps dragons were never meant to live among the wolves.





	Into the Flames

_“He was your father, wasn’t he? My grandfather.”_

Jon could feel the breath catch in his throat and, for a moment, the sound of his pounding heart was all that he could process.

Part of him had always known that this day would come but he had done his best to put it out of his mind. He had no interest in that family line, with their legacy of blood and madness. He had known the truth of his birth for a long while now, ever since that day in the Winterfell crypts, but he had tried not to let that ruin the life he had miraculously managed to build.  After all he had been though, all he had done, Jon still found it hard to believe that he had found happiness back in the north.

Alongside the woman he had grown with and always admired from afar.

The Queen in the North had pardoned him and, despite his lingering guilt, he had accepted. He had always felt that his place was here. And, one winter night, they had given into long-held desires. A union, and three babes had followed, filling the man with more joy than he had thought possible.

But, as ever, danger still lingered on the edges of their world. The birth of their first son had been undeniably wonderful—of course it had—but the child’s striking appearance had filled Jon with yet more guilt and worry.

Silver hair and violet eyes. The marks of a house all thought had perished.

 _His_ house.

They had never told anyone of Jon’s true birth but there was no doubt that the rumours had intensified tenfold. The people knew he was a cousin, not a brother, to their Queen. And the clever amongst them had managed to fit the pieces together long ago.

Sansa always said that if they never acknowledged it, it was not a matter of official record. That was true, but Jon wondered how much that really mattered. Most people knew. It was impossible to look at young Robb Stark and not see. And though he himself had been blessed with the Stark features of his mother, Jon had long felt like a man in a thin and precarious disguise.

He wandered these halls with dark furs draped nobly across his shoulders, looking every inch the wolf he wished to be. But there was still a dragon underneath. There was no way that he could rid himself of that terrible legacy.

The Targaryen’s lived on. Because of him.

And now, in the darkened library of Winterfell, it seemed that his young son had reached the only logical conclusion too.

How could he not? The boy may have been just past his tenth name day, but he had always wondered why he bore such little resemblance to his parents. Why his features were so strikingly out of place in these northern climes.

He stood before his father now, violet eyes full of fear and wonder as he held up the book which confirmed the unspoken truth.  

Jon had only seen a few images of his long-dead father. Of Rhaegar. And this was not one that he had come across before. But his son, apparently, had chosen to spend the evening pursuing books about the old royal lines of Westeros and had come across this beautifully detailed painting in one of the old tomes. It was impossible to say haw accurate it was, having never seen the man himself, but Jon was quite willing to bet that the artist had been rather skilled.  

This was exactly how he had always envisioned his father. Strong and noble, handsome with a kindness in his unusual eyes. And, of course, the long silver locks of his line.

To his surprise, Jon could even see a bit of himself in the image. The nose, the cheekbones, and the shape of his brow. He had always thought of himself as nothing but his mother’s son. A pure Stark of the north. But it was hard to deny those striking traces of Valyrian elegance in his own visage, so much like the father he would never meet.

And so much like his own son.

The blood of the dragon remained strong.

“Tell me father, please.” Robb’s voice was strained and Jon could see that the boy was still struggling to process this revelation.

He tried to open his mouth, to reply, but he found his words stuck in the dryness of his throat.

“All the books say he kidnapped Lyanna Stark, but I’ve heard others say that wasn’t true,” the boy continued. “People say that they were in love, and even married. I’ve also head it said that grandfather cared for their child after her death.”

As much as he wanted to say that none of it was true, it was apparent that his son had pieced the story together with surprising accuracy. And really, it was not unexpected. The rumours swirled openly, and Robb himself seemed to provide the ultimate proof.

So Jon said the only thing he felt that he could.

“Yes.”

With one simple word, the boy took a step back. Stumbling as if struck by a bolt. Perhaps he had reached his conclusions, but that had not mitigated the shock of hearing it confirmed.

“It is true, Robb. And I was that child.”

A long silence fell and Jon allowed himself to sink down into the nearest library chair as he buckled under the weight of his son’s stare. It seemed that the boy had forgotten to blink as he gazed at him with widened eyes. Perhaps he imagined it, but it felt as if Robb was looking at him for the first time—seeing him not as the father who had raised him lovingly, but as something else instead.

A foreigner in these walls.

He hated the thought.

And he hated it even more when the boy spoke the truth.

“You’re a Targaryen,” he whispered, clutching the book close and glancing down at the portrait once more. “Rhaegar Targaryen’s trueborn son.”

Again, denial seemed futile—as much as he did not want to, Jon nodded.

“I am,” he choked, his mind screaming in protest. “I was born Aegon Targaryen, but that is not who I chose to be.”

Although the words had left his lips, and he knew them to be true, the moment still felt surreal. It seemed like a lie to him, even though it even though he knew it was not. _You are not a wolf_ , an unwelcomed voice whispered from the depths of his mind, _your son is no wolf either_.   

Jon wasn’t sure how he had pictured the day he would finally tell his children—in truth, he had tried not to think about it, despite the inevitability. This was certainly not what he would have chosen. A confrontation on a darkened night. He could see the initial shock fading now, but it was quickly replaced by the appearance of anger on his son’s face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The silver-haired child demanded, dropping the book onto a nearby table as if it had burned his skin. “I have a right to know!”

Jon felt his stomach churn.

“You do,” He agreed before rubbing his throbbing temple. Perhaps he should call for his wife, he mused. She had always been better at getting the child’s fiery temper in check. But, then again, this was his burden to bear, not hers. She had never lied about her place, nor did she have to. Jon was the one with secrets. Secrets that he wished could stay buried.

There was no point in merely wishing. He had known since that day Robb had been born, looking as he did, that this moment would come.

“Your mother and I agreed that we would tell you when the time felt right. I am sorry that you had to find out this way, this was never my intent.”

Robb simply scoffed.

“How am I to believe that? You have been lying to me my entire life!”

He did his best to steady himself, to stay calm despite the emotion welling inside. He had always prided himself in his closeness to his son. Despite the offers of various knights and lords, Jon had insisted on taking the boy under his own wing. He had shown him how to ride, how to fight. He had tried to teach him what was just and right. Although he was not his father, Ned Stark had been a fine example and Jon had always wanted to live up to the man who had loomed to large over his life.

But now, perhaps, everything was beginning to unravel.

He, of all people, knew the sting of a father’s secrets.

 “We were going to tell you, all of you,” he reiterated, mind drifting briefly to his younger son and daughter. Cate and Rickon were still quite young, and did not share their brother’s unique traits, but this was their lineage as much as Robb’s. They would know one day as well. “But this changes nothing, Robb.” He pressed, hoping that the boy would see reason. “You are a Stark, first and foremost. And you will one day rule the North. This is your place and that is what truly matters.”

Much to his displeasure, the boy’s face remained stony and hard. He could not help but be reminded of his Aunt, the woman he had once followed those many years ago. She too had looked towards him with such fierce coldness in her eyes when he had confessed the truth.

It sent a chill through his body.

“My place?” Robb asked, shaking his head in seeming disbelief. “This has never felt like my place, father. How could it? Just look at me!”

The boy gestured towards himself and Jon could not help but see his point. Robb had always been an oddity, cursed with the Targaryen traits he had unwittingly passed on.

No northerner looked as he did.

“You don’t understand,” the child continued, anger and frustration in his tone. “There have always been whispers, everywhere I go. People say I am not of this place. They say I do not belong to you, or to mother.” He hesitated for a moment. “I once heard Ser Bannon telling another that he thought me the secret child of the dragon queen. I never wanted to believe any of it, but then I’d look at my reflection and wonder. The thoughts, the uncertainty, it was threatening to drive me mad. That is why I started to search,” Robb glanced towards the shelves which contained the tomes about royal history, “I needed to know where I had come from. I needed to know if I was even yours!”

“Robb,” Jon began slowly after a brief pause. It pained him to know that his son had been experiencing such hidden doubts. He could see the unshed tears in his eyes and he longed to pull him into an embrace. “I do understand, better than you know,” the man whispered, thinking of his own uncertain childhood. “I grew up as a bastard, unsure of who my mother was. And, as it turned out, having no idea who my father was as well. I felt like an outcast here every single day of my life.”

Robb remained by the table, unmoving.

“I am sorry we did not tell you sooner. I did not know the whispers had reached you and it pains me to hear that you felt such doubt. But,” he continued, “you can rest assured that you are very much my son, and your mother’s. You look as you do because of me,” Jon hesitated, his eyes moving towards the book that had started it all. “You share my face, and my father’s traits. But you also share your mother’s title, and the family name that belonged to my mother as well. As I said, nothing must change. And even though you know, this is a secret that we must keep within this family. No one else must know. You are Robb Stark, the heir of Winterfell—that is as true now as it ever was before.”

He hoped that would be enough.

“No.”

 Jon found himself holding his breath as the boy took several steps towards him, examining him once more.

“We are not Starks, father. We will never be Starks.”

Before he could reply Robb brushed passed him, Valyrian determination flashing on his face again. For a moment, Jon thought he was simply going to storm out of the room but, instead, the child turned towards the large roaring fireplace that was currently keeping the cavernous library alight.

Rising from his chair, Jon turned just in time to see his son thrust an arm into the flame. He held it there, unmoving, as the bright tendrils wrapped viciously around his limb.

The world seemed to freeze as he looked on in horror.

Without a second thought, Jon flung himself forward, fatherly instincts kicking in. His own safety unconsidered, he dashed towards Rob, throwing his own arms forward into the fire to pull his son away.

The two tumbled back onto the cold stone, breaths laboured and hearts pounding.

As soon as the initial shock dissipated, Jon pulled himself back into a seated position on the floor and pulled the boy forward, examining his exposed arm fearfully.

The fabric of his simple tunic had quickly burned away but, much to his surprise and relief, the pale skin was unblemished and smooth. There was nary a hint of a burn, despite the danger of his impulsive display.

“You’re okay.” The father breathed, instinctually pulling the boy close for a gruff embrace. For a moment, nothing else seemed to matter.  

But as Robb pulled back, he could see that there was no shock or regret in his eyes.

He simply starred ahead.

“Of course I’m okay,” he replied, his voice colder and more detached than Jon would have liked. “And so are you.”

Suddenly remembering himself, he glanced down at the hands which had reached into the roaring flames only moments before. His sleeves were charred and ruined, but his skin was unharmed. As he thought about it, he could not even remember feeling the heat as he pulled his son away. It had only been a few seconds, but it had been enough to cause damage.

Or at least, it should have been if his blood had not been cursed with ancient magic.

“You’re so content with your denial that you’ve never even tried, have you?” Robb asked in slight disbelief.

He had thought about it once or twice, but the boy was right. Jon had never tested himself against the flames—in fact, he had made a point of avoiding any contact out of fear of what he might discover.

He had never wanted to be a dragon. And not knowing how many traits he shared with his long-dead father had seemed the easiest course.   

“I’ve done it before, father. When I started to suspect I was something more,” the boy began, a slight smile on his lips. “Fire does not burn me, just as it not burn you.”

 Jon glanced down at his hands once more, turning them forwards and back as if hoping to find some sign that this was not true.

But it was.

He knew that.

He was his father’s son, and Robb was his.

They were dragons hidden amongst a pack of wolves.

“I am not the heir of Winterfell,” Robb said with a slow shake of his head. “Because you are Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his Name and the true king of Westeros. And I am your son.”

Hearing that name spoken aloud, on the lips of his precious child, stung in a way he had not thought possible. He had always hated hearing it, and he thought of it as infrequently as he could. He had long tried to tell himself that it meant nothing—that he was simply Jon Stark, consort of the Queen in the North— but for some, such titles would never lose their weight.

He felt it crushing down upon him.

“Your uncle Bran is the king.”

“Not the rightful king.”

“He is, because the council made it so. And that is the new way.” Jon’s voice was firm, his eyes locked with his son. “That will never be my name, nor my title. And I am grateful for that. It may seem a tempting thought, Robb, but you must believe me when I say that such things bring more grief than they are worth.”

Robb, despite his youth, did not falter.

“For you, perhaps…”

They remained next to the roaring flame but Jon felt nothing but chilling fear as his son spoke.

He wanted to believe that there was still time. That the child would forgive him for his secrets and come to see that their life in the north was preferable to any distant fantasies of power and conquest.

And yet, that persistent voice in the back of his head could not be quelled as he sat starring at the boy in front of him.

His Targaryen boy with silver locks and dangerous eyes.

Perhaps this was the beginning of the end…


End file.
